


A Sound Spanking

by Bottlegreen



Series: The Full Medical [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Humour, M/M, Medical Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:32:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottlegreen/pseuds/Bottlegreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a month, Mycroft is summonsed to the doctor's office, stripped to his underwear and given a sound spanking.</p><p>There isn't a single part of the procedure that he doesn't enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sound Spanking

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to The Full Medical.

There wasn’t a single part of the procedure that Mycroft didn’t enjoy.

It begins two weeks before the consultation itself with the arrival of an ordinary brown envelope. The letter inside states in plain terms that Mr Holmes is required to attend the clinic for his monthly check-up; this is Mycroft’s cue to call and make an appointment, always with a slight but pleasurable apprehension in the pit of his stomach. Once done he clears his diary for the remainder of that day with strict instructions to his staff that nothing less than a critical threat is to disturb him. They obey of course: a number have noticed his improved humour since the appointments began.

Over the next few days a growing sense of anticipation accompanies him through the humdrum routine of meetings,  briefings and interminable state banquets. The text message arriving precisely forty eight-hours before the appointment is short and to the point; reading it always sends a pleasant thrill down his spine. Mr Holmes is reminded that his appointment has been scheduled for two day’s time and his presence is expected. There is the veiled but definite implication that strict sanctions will be applied should he be late. The precise, delightful, nature of these sanctions is not specified but provides a fruitful topic of consideration throughout the evenings prior.

Inevitably the morning of the appointment is busy as he works to clear his in-tray. Promptly at two he leaves his office and takes the short walk to the Ministry medical facilities located in a leafy square near Horse Guards. Once through the clinic's heavy wooden doors his weariness drops away. There is a particular smell to the place: the same lavender floor polish that the MoD uses in each of its buildings, but in addition the slight but definite tang of clinical disinfectant and just possibly the faintest hint of castile soap. It sets off an entirely uncharacteristic fluttering in his stomach, equal parts trepidation and excitement. At the front desk he gives his name to the receptionist and receives in return an envelope marked in the doctor’s firm hand: _Mycroft Holmes_. Inside is a questionnaire. The questions are extensive, even intimate, covering his diet and exercise regime  in addition to his mental and physical well-being. He fills it out with scrupulous honesty - it does not do to lie to one’s physician - and hands it back for the doctor’s review. And then he is left to wait. This in itself is quite remarkable. Mycroft Holmes is left to sit in an empty waiting room like a naughty schoolboy waiting to see the headmaster. It takes all of his considerable self-possession not to fidget in his seat. It is one of the more fascinating aspects of the procedure that the doctor, a man of reasonable but not excessive intellect, understands almost instinctively the inflammatory effect that these little touches will have upon a man of Mycroft’s tastes.

Eventually the receptionist calls his name and he walks, footsteps echoing, down a long, parqueted corridor until he reaches a door standing ajar. The examination room is empty, the bench already set up and on it, waiting for him, an ominous blue gown. Now there is no time to waste. He must strip off his expensive suit, remove his watch, turn off his mobile phone and do away with all the trappings that mark him subtly but unmistakably as one of the ruling elite. His underwear he retains, for the time being.

The gown itself is hideously unflattering. For these appointments the doctor prefers a style which opens at the front. This provides a shred of modesty but the gown itself remains shapeless, far too short and uncomfortably prickly against skin which is more accustomed to the caress of Egyptian cotton. The hard plastic of the chair where he sits is similarly scratchy against his bare thighs and serves as a tangible warning of the treatment they are soon to receive. And there, denuded of his finery, goose bumps rising on his quivering flesh, mouth dry, and palms a little damp, he waits, nervously eyeing the long ruler which waits on the doctor’s desk.

Doctor Watson’s arrival always comes as something of a relief. Past the first flush of youth, not tall, but solidly built, there is something immediately reassuring about his careworn face and air of quiet competence. They give the impression of immense reliability - that one is in safe, if not necessarily indulgent, hands. Following the usual pleasantries, the doctor will sit and together they review the questionnaire. Progress is patchy - Mycroft has never aspired to sainthood - but in general positive. Understanding that his continued attendance at the clinic is contingent on demonstrating improvements to his health, he has made genuine efforts to incorporate breakfast and a walk along the Victoria Embankment into his daily routine and has limited smoking to times when the national security threat is severe or above. Nonetheless, the doctor’s tone at this point is often lightly condescending and sometimes downright stern. On any other occasion Mycroft would verbally eviscerate the person who dared speak to him in such a fashion but here, in the sanctuary of the doctor’s surgery, he finds it somehow immeasurably soothing to be chided, rebuked and gently chastised.

So calming does he find it, that it is always a shock to be escorted onto the examination bench to begin the more physical aspects of the examination. The first part is a visual inspection where he is scrutinised and assessed from head to toe. In someone else's hands it could be a little embarrassing but the doctor remains the model of professionalism throughout. Mycroft is kept modestly covered, only the required parts exposed, and the doctor touches him only when necessary and briefly at that. His cool gloved fingers do not brush against Mycroft’s tight nipples as he listens to his lungs, nor he does not comment on the pink flush that has begun to mottle his patient’s chest as he palpates the lymph nodes behind his ears, a process which always causes the hairs on the back of Mycroft’s neck to rise most pleasantly, nor mention the bulge at his patient’s groin when he opens the gown to palpate his abdomen. Instead he works through his list methodically, periodically issuing quiet instructions in a tone of imperturbable calm.

Such careful handling means the _frisson_ is even greater when the doctor finally finishes his examination and says: “Turn around and rest your chest on the table please.” It is an essential part of the process that he neither asks Mycroft if he would like a spanking nor tells him he deserves one. It is a sensible precaution: while the likes of Miss Adler may provide recreational scoldings, Doctor Watson understands that presenting the treatment as reward or punishment would lead to counter-productive behaviours. Instead he provides strict chastisement as a necessary part of Mycroft's medical care, rather in the nature of a tonic: just as a vintage Rolls Royce requires fine tuning by a skilled mechanic, so Mycroft too requires specialist handling to maintain him in the peak of health.

Such is the doctor’s assurance that it is the most natural thing in the world to obey, the foam mattress dipping slightly beneath him, the scent of the medical wipes used to clean the upholstery heady in his nostrils as he presses his cheek to the cool plastic. He retains this dream-like lethargy as the doctor raises the table upwards to place him at the correct height, then steps him backwards. This manoeuvre both aligns Mycroft's spine  more neutrally and has the effect of releasing his cock from its comfortable resting place sandwiched between his body and the bench and leaves it instead, thwarted, in mid air. It is only when he hears the doctor remove his gloves with a distinctive double snap that Mycroft’s heart rate begins to pick up but by then it is too late, the doctor is already raising the flimsy gown and the treatment is about to begin.

For the warm up the doctor uses his favourite springy ruler, an implement that Mycroft has grown to both desire and fear. It stings the skin of his bottom with a deceptively light touch which builds rapidly to a smarting heat that has him dancing on his toes in no time at all. After some minutes of stinging slaps, when the doctor judges his patient’s skin is sufficiently warm and rosy he will put the ruler to one side. This is only a temporary reprieve while he pulls down Mycroft’s underwear to his knees. The process usually takes some time, firstly because Mycroft, now the reality of his stinging bottom has registered, is not inclined to be helpful and secondly because the influx of blood that the ruler has produced has provoked a rather noticeable engorgement around which the doctor has to negotiate.

The next stage is the ruler on bare skin, landing flat across Mycroft's buttocks in a forceful percussion. If the doctor is feeling whimsical he may have Mycroft recite his guidelines on healthy living but for the most part he proceeds in silence, letting the slap of hard plastic on soft flesh speak for itself. Mycroft protests of course, when he can catch his breath but he does so in the spirit of making a formal complaint to the Kyrgyzstanis; in the full understanding that he will be listened to politely then profoundly ignored. By this stage his legs will be kicking out, careless of modesty, but the doctor’s reaction is simply to anchor him more firmly in place and continue tirelessly smacking his quivering bottom. Only when Mycroft is as pink and out of breath as any NHS guidance might require will the doctor will pause and run an assessing palm over Mycroft’s rump, before judging his patient is ready for more traditional methods.

The change of technique is a mixed blessing. The doctor’s bare hand is larger than the ruler and less stingy but it is heavier too and more deliberate in its effect. He spanks with a scooping motion and a slowly building intensity, cupping his hand to deliver a meaty thud which produces a deeper stimulation than the ruler alone can provide. Mycroft kicks in earnest and struggles and issues formal diplomatic protest even as the coarse fabric of the gown chafes his swollen nipples exquisitely and his neglected cock twitches and prods at the empty air. Eventually he is driven onto his tiptoes by his distress which only has consequence of presenting the tender underswell of his bottom more fully to the doctor’s stern hand. The sensation here is deeper, more complex and the doctor is not slow to concentrate his attention upon the area, each smack delivering a powerful jolt which combine to produce a growing heat and an urgent itch deep in Mycroft's pelvis.

Should at this point the doctor have ever chosen to further exert his authority, by for example rolling Mycroft over, spreading his thighs and _mounting_ him, then it’s fair to say that he would not have received even a token protest. The doctor though, despite his charmingly flexible approach to patient care, believes this would be a step too far and while Mycroft has never, whatever Sherlock may think, lacked for lovers he knows of only one GP prepared to deliver the sound therapeutic spankings he so thoroughly deserves. Consequently he does not press the matter and the doctor is free to continue his efforts unhindered, proceeding until Mycroft's buttocks are a rich, rosy red and his cries have taken on a shrill, staccato quality. Then, abruptly, the doctor will stop. Strangely Mycroft's cries will often grow louder and his wriggling more pronounced at this point, but the doctor is not to be swayed. Instead he deems it instructive for Mycroft to have a few moments to collect his thoughts before the treatment concludes. So Mycroft is left where he lies: sprawled across the table, gasping like a landed fish, underwear around his knees, strainingly erect and with his throbbing red bottom most shamefully displayed.

Only once a full five minutes have passed does the doctor return with his tub of emollient cream to complete the treatment. In this alone, he seems to linger, squeezing and cupping the roundness of Mycroft’s rump with a thoroughness that hints at a more than professional pride at how skilfully he has reddened the pliant flesh. While the cool cream is soothing, Mycroft's need for a more direct intervention focussing on that maddening itch is by now is very pressing and after a few minutes of massage his thighs have parted as wide as they can, given the hobbling underwear, in an unspoken demand.

The intrusion of the first finger -  gradual, gentle but quite inexorable -  is almost the best part: the slow stretch, the sensations of pressure and penetration and the naughty contrast of cold slick lubricant on hot skin are almost unbearably exciting. The doctor’s careful fingers are sure, steady and most deliciously knuckly as he probes, providing a focussed kind of stimulation that no other method has come close to replicating. In the face of such skilled manipulation, orgasm becomes certain. The only blot on Mycroft's happiness is that he is never allowed to linger over these final glorious moments. The doctor seems to think that allowing any pause for breath would be a stain on his professional competence and works him tirelessly to a powerful climax. After two weeks of anticipation and an hour of his favourite treatment, Mycroft is helpless to resist or even postpone the inevitable and the final ecstatic moments are over far, far too soon.

The matter concludes briskly. The doctor checks his vital signs, pronounces himself satisfied and leaves Mycroft to recover. Five minutes after his phone call, a black car rolls up outside the clinic. Then it’s home for a hot bath, a light supper and early to bed where he sleeps like a baby for a full eight hours.

And the _best_ thing, he thinks as he lies in his steaming bath, occasionally turning on the hot tap with his big toe, the very best thing about the whole procedure is the certain knowledge that it’s only another two weeks before the next letter lands on his desk and the whole process can begin all over again.

It does marvels for his blood pressure.


End file.
